Acrash of metal jolts me awake. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. A dark ceiling hangs above me and voices shout in a language my sleepy brain can’t place. Then someone callsandiamo!– let’s go – a word even I know, and it clicks. I’m in Venice.
I throw back the covers and stumble to the shutters. What I thought was a tall window turns out to be a Juliet balcony, the canal right there, a few metres below. Two men in hi-vis overalls hurl bags of rubbish from metal cages into a waiting barge.
Normal here, I suppose.
I’m just starting to relax, drinking in the sight of the buildings opposite, when I hear the sound of running water. And it’s not coming from outside.
Bile rises in my throat. Did I leave a tap on?
I vaguely remember going to the loo in the wee hours. My brain goes straight to the headlines:Lying Scottish student owes thousands in damages after flooding Venetian palazzo. I sprint to the bathroom door,wrench it open …
And freeze.
Leo’s at the sink, toothbrush in hand, shirtless. His reflection bounces off every mirror in the room, so it’s not just one of him, it’s five – shoulders, arms, chest – basically everything I’m tryingnotto see.
My own horrified face stares back from every angle.
‘Ever heard of knocking?’ he mumbles around his toothbrush.
‘Ever heard of locking the door?’ I fire back, edging around him to snatch my washbag before diving back into my bedroom and slamming the door shut. I lean against it for good measure, trying to delete the images from my brain.
We share a bathroom?
I get ready at record speed, mortified at being caught in my tartan pyjamas. Mum and Dad gave them to Griselda when she went to Florence, and now they’ve been passed down to me, along with her career plan and her future.
I collide with Leo again at the top of the stairs. He’s in a long-sleeved pink polo shirt now, which should look ridiculous but really doesn’t. At least he’s covered up. I step back to let him pass, and he nods stiffly before starting down ahead of me.
‘No “ladies first” in Italy then?’ I mutter.
‘Actually,’ he says without turning, ‘the man goes first on stairs. In case theladyfalls.’
His emphasis on ‘lady’ suggests I don’t qualify. That I don’t have a clue about what’s proper. Fair enough, I don’t. So I make a mental note to keep my mouth and the bathroom door firmly shut.
Veronica’s waiting on the bottom landing, fastening a black wool cape that makes her red hair pop. ‘Ah, good, you’re ready. I thought we’d have breakfast together.’
They have breakfast … out?
We leave by a different door this time, on to a street running along the canal I saw from my balcony. It’s my first time stepping into a day-lit Venice and the colours surprise me – the water, the palazzos, the blue overhead. February in Scotland does not look this good.
A small, beaten-up boat is moored nearby, and a boy is helping the brownie woman out. He’s a head taller than she is, but the dark, lively eyes and high cheekbones give him away as her son.
He greets Leo with a shoulder shove, then gives me a slow once-over before holding out his hand. ‘Piacere, Jacopo.’
‘Evie,’ I reply, taking it.
‘English?’ he asks.
‘Scottish,’ I correct, remembering Griselda telling me this would happen a lot.
‘Bellissima.’ He flips my hand over and presses a quick kiss to the back.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or pull away. Mum would call him a charmer. Dad would call him a chancer. But there’s something familiar about him, like we’ve already met.
‘Don’t get too flattered,’ Leo mutters. ‘He does that with everyone.’
Jacopo flinches, as if he’s not sure what Leo’s problem is. Then he laughs. ‘Ahh, she is theartista. Worried aboutun po’ dicompetition?’
Leo jams his hands into his coat pockets, and I shift uncomfortably, remembering Veronica’s weird comment about how I’d be a successful addition to the project. Is that why Leo’s off with me? Is the faerie prince worried about his precious throne?
